


Agency

by aishahiwatari



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Rough Kissing, Section 31 (Star Trek)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: It’s the same, familiar Starfleet insignia, but there’s nothing to denote rank or position beyond the colour. On the back, there is engraved only the Starfleet ID, no name.Jim knows better than to look it up.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 180





	Agency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Demerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/gifts).



> For Demi. There are no words, except I love you, and thank you, always.

“Who is that?” Jim asks, the first time he sees him. He’s nudged Gaila, who’s sat next to him in Advanced Diplomacy, and she looks up from her padd just in time to see the figure disappear through the door at the back of the lecture theatre.

Or not quite in time. “Who’s who?”

“Nevermind,” Jim says, because the lecturer is giving him the evil eye and he doesn’t want to get hauled into Pike’s office again. He tries to listen, but it’s all so boring. It’s not like he doesn’t know this stuff already.

-

Jim keeps an eye out after that, though. He knows and has been through too much not to notice shadowy figures sneaking about. And sure enough, he catches glimpses; the retreating back of a black jacket; the glint of sunlight from a badge on a chest from across the quad; a head of neat, dark hair in a crowd. There’s no outright malevolence there but Jim knows better than to let that reassure him. But he’s not quite sure enough of himself to ask Pike about it just yet, either.

So he watches, and waits. Subtly tries to pin down a routine but finds no consistency at all, and never manages to identify a face. There’s only a vague, unstable impression of features associated with dark hair, so Jim doesn’t know if it’s a memory or just his brain filling in the gaps.

After a while, he begins to worry he might have fabricated the whole thing. He knows what PTSD is, has always had to, to avoid being diagnosed with it, and the constant perception of threats is hardly uncommon. Except he doesn’t feel threatened, just- uncomfortably observed. Every now and then the hair at the nape of his neck stands on end, he gets a shiver down his spine, like he’s being watched. Whenever he looks, there’s nobody there. Maybe he’s hallucinating.

He’s not sleeping great, and so he’s late for class one day, running across to the main building with a couple of hastily improvised shortcuts through and over certain technically inaccessible quirks of architecture that happen to be in his way. His mind’s going a mile a minute; there’s a history quiz today and he’s always getting his significant Denobulan families confused with the Betazoid Matriarchy, so he doesn’t notice the figure until it’s too late, and he’s taken a flight of stairs three at a time straight into-

“You!” he says, as they both grapple to simultaneously steady each other and defend their own personal space, as an impressive glower is turned on him, as his palms briefly alight on a strong, broad chest and he commits to memory those chiselled features, hazel eyes, the mole above an arched brow.

“We’ve never met.”

“No, but I’ve seen you. In my lecture hall, around the science labs, the observatory. Always hiding, or sneaking. Lurking. Who are you?”

“That’s none of your damn business,” the Southern accent takes on a darker tone, one of warning and threat, then indignation. “And I do not lurk.”

Oh, fuck. He’s hot, Jim realises, with a squeeze in his heart and also a little lower. “What are you looking for? Or waiting for?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re late for class.” The man disentangles himself and walks away, doesn’t even slow down when Jim calls after him-

“How do you know that!”

He just lifts a hand in a wave.

Jim watches him go with narrowed eyes and his jaw set, waits until he’s rounded the corner and then heads off in the direction of his class. He’s received the obligatory chastisement and taken his seat, allowed the class to sink into its usual somnolent rhythm before he slips the black badge he stole out from his sleeve.

It’s the same, familiar Starfleet insignia, but there’s nothing to denote rank or position beyond the colour. On the back, there is engraved only the Starfleet ID, no name.

Jim knows better than to look it up. He memorises the number, just in case, and slips the badge into his pocket. It’s warmed by his body by the time he reaches down to touch it, and he’s idly tracing the shape of it without really realising as he completes the test, finishing before everyone else despite the wandering of his mind.

-

“What’s Section Thirty-One?” he asks Pike, the next time he’s hauled into his office for something he didn’t even do- no, really, this time.

It makes Pike stall mid-rant, then somehow turn even more serious. “What are you caught up in, Jim?”

“Nothing! I just heard some rumours. It-“ Jim sighs, looks away, because he’d planned to lie but this is the truth, and the only person he could tell it to. “Reminds me of what happened on Tarsus. What are they, just- above the law?”

Because he’s not watching he doesn’t see the moment Pike considers not believing him, before he says, “They’re secretive. But they are managed effectively. They’re chosen well, Jim. You’re at no risk from them.”

It still doesn’t sit quite right with Jim. But if there’s one person he trusts, it’s Pike, and there was no point in asking him if Jim wasn’t going to believe his answer.

He nods, and is dismissed.

-

Jim steals -borrows- a padd from someone who’s been a dick to him, leaves campus and heads to the mall to log into a secure network through a backdoor while carefully out of view of any security cameras. Then, he searches Starfleet databases for the ID number that’s been circulating in his head for days. He hasn’t seen the owner of it; either he’s hiding better or laying low, and Jim tries to tell himself that the feeling swirling in his gut isn’t disappointment. It would be a strange kind of grief, he knows, for a connection that has never been.

The Starfleet ID alone nets him only minimal results but this is what Jim does. He found a photo of a genocidal dictator when he was fourteen despite the efforts made to hide it, and he can find one of an implausibly attractive secret agent who- also happens to be a doctor. Strange career choice. Maybe something to do with his divorce, or the custody battle he lost.

Jim can’t linger, but he mentally notes what he can and dumps the padd in the first recycler he finds on his way back to his dorm.

“Okay, that’s impressive,” he’s forced to concede, when there are no signs of entry but that same doctor is sitting at his desk, looking right at home with his feet up, not quite casual enough to stop Jim’s heart from racing, his hindbrain from screaming at him, his legs itching to move.

There’s a fresh badge on that black-uniformed chest, but the owner of it still holds out his hand and says, “Give it back.”

Begrudgingly, Jim does. If anything is thought about the number of smudged fingerprints on that shiny black surface, nothing is said about them.

“Section Thirty-One operates in secrecy, out of necessity. It’s my duty to take appropriate measures to maintain that security. Is there anything I need to do, to ensure yours?”

“I want a job interview,” Jim’s said, before he’s even considered it.

“We don’t interview. We headhunt.”

“You’re Doctor Leonard McCoy. You tell people your middle name is Hercules but it’s not, it’s Horatio. You’re thirty years old, and you have an MD and a PhD. Psychology. From the University of Mississippi. You played basketball there. In a game against the law students you fractured your clavicle. You were treated at a Starfleet medical facility and it’s what compelled you to join. You’ve had over a hundred hours of therapy for aviophobia. You’re divorced.” Jim takes a breath, knows this is a step too far but he has to prove himself, and in order to do that it needs to be truly personal. “Your daughter’s name is Joanna.”

Fuck, they must spend a lot of time on hand-to-hand in Section 31 training because he’s pinned against the wall with a hand around his throat before he can get another word out.

“Are you threatening me? Because there’s only one way that ends, kid. When I’m finished you’ll be lucky if they find so much as your bones.” McCoy snarls, and there’s not a trace of the doctor in him, unless it’s the kind that signed up specifically to see people suffer.

“I’m offering to help you. I got that information in twenty minutes. I can hide it. You get me one of those-“ Jim lifts a hand to the badge on McCoy’s chest, doesn’t struggle even though it’s getting hard to breathe, harder to talk. “And I’ll show you how.”

McCoy is furious. His eyes are blazing. Their lower bodies are pressed close even though it’s not advisable, defensively, to have their hips crushed together, a thick, solid thigh between Jim’s. McCoy’s still improbably gorgeous, and Jim thinks he could break free if he tried, but he’s not sure. That thought shouldn’t thrill him as much as it does. He had thought he wanted to be a Captain, but the idea of making a difference from behind the scenes, having nobody care about his name appeals more than he can say. He’s good at this. He’ll know what’s happening on a grand scale even before the higher ranks of the ‘fleet.

And he’ll be working in close quarters with this enigmatic, passionate man.

“Just so I know,” Jim rasps when the silence has dragged on a little too long, “What are the fraternisation rules in your organisation?”

“We don’t have any.”

“Rules? Or fraternisation?” Jim asks, but since by the end he’s murmuring it directly into McCoy’s mouth the question is somewhat moot. There’s no longer a hand around his neck, but one cradling his jaw, and the thigh pushed between his is more insistent than ever, even as McCoy coaxes him into responding with the slow, gentle efforts of his tongue. He’s warm, and solid, and he takes his time, delving deep and stealing Jim’s breath away all over again before he pulls back, darkened eyes still on Jim’s. He’s frighteningly intense. Jim’s never wanted anyone more.

“You’ll have to leave behind all you know. Your friends and family. You’ll make tough decisions, and nobody will ever thank you. You’ll be alone out there. Except for the rest of us. So think about this carefully. Are you sure?”

Jim had already swiped the second badge from his chest, long minutes ago, and he just holds it up in answer, a satisfied smile on his face as he tips his head back against the wall.

He’s not expecting McCoy to just regard it with a smirk and a quirked brow.

He’s definitely not expecting to already see his own Starfleet ID engraved on the back.

Jim’s not often outsmarted. He thinks he might have to get used to it.

He can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m also on [Tumblr](https://aishahiwatari.tumblr.com/)


End file.
